I’m done being decision maker. I’m gonna try being a fresh maker for awhile.

Here’s the scenario: A ski-masked gunman runs up to me and yells, “Your wallet or your life!”


It’s not that I have a death wish, or a particularly full wallet, I just can’t… make… one… more… decision.

I suffer from decision fatigue.

It’s a thing, you know, legitimized on the internet with its very own Wikipedia entry and numerous stories on all sorts of reputable journalism sites. And while I have, at times, incorrectly diagnosed myself with Lyme Disease and viral meningitis and a grapefruit-sized ovarian cyst (sadly my poochy belly was just my poochy belly), I know without a doubt I have decision fatigue.

Is there a plastic bracelet or a ribbon for that? Probably not because I bet no one could settle on a color.

George W may have reveled in being “the decider” but I’m sick of it.

Part of the problem is I’m not just deciding for myself but for four, sometimes five, people and often many more than that since I drive a minivan and can accommodate up to seven additional passengers. Take note, future carpooling parents: If you opt for a motorcycle, without sidecar, no one will ever ask if you wouldn’t mind also driving little Loganberry to the flag football game, too.

Remember that movie ”Minority Report” where Tom Cruise is a futuristic cop solving crimes before they happen and he swipes through all those holographic screens? That’s me, in the morning, except I have just one screen and it’s a mere 4.7 inches but it holds so, so much information. On a typical day, before 7:30 in the morning, I will have already swiped through all kinds of texts messages with assorted people and made dozens of decisions about who’s being driven where and when.


And my husband wonders why he asks a simple question like, “Hey, where should we go on vacation?” and all I can muster is “Uuuuuummmmmmm….”

I love eating out, but sometimes just looking at a menu, even when there aren’t a lot of options, makes my overtaxed brain short circuit. I get all Scarlett O’Hara helpless. “What do YOU like?” I’ll ask the server.

For months, it’s been clear to me — while the rest of the tiny-font world I live in has only gotten blurrier — that I need reading glasses. I always browse the racks at Target, look on websites devoted to cheaters and you know what? I can’t choose. There are so many stinking frames out there. So instead I squint and continue to misdial phone numbers that I just can’t make out.

I need help. I haven’t had a Magic 8 Ball since middle school, but I’m thinking I might need to get a new one.

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